


Road Trip

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor McCoy is relocating to California after his divorce. After mechanical difficulties on the long drive from Georgia, he meets a mechanic (Jim) interested in servicing more than just his car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Present-day AU in which Jim is a mechanic. Written for the "service" square of my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card. Thanks to [](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/profile)[blue_jack](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) for the idea. Beta'd by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/).

It’s been a long, dusty drive from Georgia, and Leonard supposes he shouldn’t be at all surprised his old car has something to say about that. He’d hoped to make it to San Francisco and his new digs today, but it looks like he may just have to be satisfied with having made it out of Arizona. And this town he’s in isn’t too small to be interesting, though he’s already forgotten the name on the sign.

Leonard ignores the first auto repair place he finds; there are only old vehicles parked outside, and two men are arguing in front of a grubby jeep, voices raised loud enough to be heard over the groaning of Leonard's car’s unhappy engine. The second place is attached to a gas station, has a good mix of vehicles waiting for attention, and the employees look neither stressed out nor idle. Leonard pulls in, finds a park, turns off the motor and listens for a while to the tick-tick-ticking of hot metal. The little picture of Joanna in its epoxy surround rocks back and forth on his keychain.

His legs are shaky and cramped when he swings out of the driver’s seat. Should have stopped more often to stretch and relieve areas of pressure. But, damn it, the endless desert vistas had long since started to blend into one blur of dry heat and wobbling black road, and he’d wanted to get out of his old life and into his new one as quickly as humanly possible. A man could be forgiven for that, surely?

A garage employee approaches. Kinda pretty, but Leonard only allows himself to notice that after the kid has given both the car and Leonard himself a definite once-over.

“Georgia plates,” says the kid, leaning back against the car and crossing his work-booted ankles. His checked work shirt, which is open over a plain cotton t-shirt, reads ‘Manager’. “You drive all that way?”

Leonard supposes it’s pretty obvious, really. Too many possessions piled on the backseat for a Sunday drive.

“Happens I don’t like to fly.”

The kid grins. It lights up his already bright eyes, reveals creases and lines that make Leonard revise some estimates. He’s more than merely _pretty_ , and he’s in his late twenties, not early. “I’m thinking that’s an understatement. About three thousand miles of understatement. I’d say you _hate_ to fly, man. So, what seems to be the trouble?”

What Leonard doesn’t know about motor vehicles could fill textbooks. He shrugs. “Temperature gauge has just been climbing and climbing, even after I stopped to fill the radiator. But I’m a doctor, not a mechanic.”

“That’s okay,” says the kid. “I like a mystery now and then.” He doesn’t make it sound as if this will _be_ a mystery. He holds out his hand, which is calloused and oil-stained. “Jim Kirk.”

“Leonard McCoy.” The clasp is warm and firm and lingers just long enough to start a shiver rolling up Leonard's spine.

“Okay, Leonard. If you could just go show my receptionist some plastic or a nice roll of green, I’ll start diagnosing your baby here.”

So Leonard finds himself sitting in a cracked vinyl and linoleum waiting room that looks several decades behind on the science of interior decorating, sipping a soda with a name and logo he doesn’t recognise and a taste he doesn’t like and wondering whether the girl behind the counter switched to this dreary country and western station just for him.

Kirk returns while Elvis is still all shook up, throws himself into the next fragile vintage chair, and helps himself to the can Leonard's just put down in disgust.

“Your radiator’s cracked pretty bad, we gotta replace it. I’ve got one out back that’ll work. You want all the technical details, or shall we just take it as read that I know ‘em and you don’t?”

“Spare me,” Leonard says. “I just want to get moving. Or, failing that, a decent bite of lunch.”

“It’s gonna cost three, four hundred bucks for parts, and it probably won’t be done ‘til after five. Labour and tax additional.”

Leonard sighs. If that car wasn’t just about the only thing he’d escaped from his marriage holding, he might seriously consider walking away and catching the next god-damn bus. “Fine. The lovely lady over there has my cell number. I’ll be… somewhere.”

Kirk smiles that disarming smile again, and Leonard suddenly wonders why he isn’t a movie star or an underwear model or one of those painfully perky over-toothed idiots on the news. “Head down main street, take a left just after the big tree. There’s a little Italian place, pink ‘n’ white tablecloths, pair of toddlers running around. I highly recommend the meatballs. Tell them I sent you.” And he pats Leonard’s arm and goes off, whistling.

***

Afternoon is getting on into evening, and Leonard's surprised how calm and contented he feels when he’s spent half the day driving and the other half waiting around for his car to be repaired so he can get on and do more damn driving. But he’s had an excellent meal, and even managed to speak to Joanna a little bit between her bath-time and her bedtime. He’s got a Sam Adams and he’s savouring it, hadn’t expected to find a good beer in the cooler in a place like this. He’s leaning on the garage’s concrete block wall staring at nothing in particular in the fenced off back area where the employees park, only most of them have gone home now and only a grunty classic motorcycle and a small, flashy red Asian import remain. He finds himself wondering how badly he’s going to regret this move in a month, in a year, but even that thought doesn’t seem to touch him, lacks the power to bring him down.

Leonard turns at the shriek of the rusty door opening, sees Jim Kirk stalking towards him wiping his hands on a dirty rag that might once have been red. Smears of oil decorate his nose and forehead, and his tight khaki t-shirt is more sweat-darkened than not. Leonard swallows.

“All done?”

“Yup,” says Kirk, and tucks the rag into the waistband of his jeans. Which are awful tight. And black. And worn in all the right places. Not that Leonard’s less scandalous bluejeans are feeling all that loose right now, with the way the kid’s looking at him, tonguetip touching the corner of his mouth as if he’s forgotten he put it there.

“So I guess I should go in and pay, then,” Leonard says, regretfully breaking the hot, tense silence.

“Nah,” says Jim. “Paul’s still detailing your car.”

“We didn’t discuss that,” Leonard snaps, seeing the bill magically rising before his eyes and his first pay packet from the hospital still a way off.

“Relax. It’s on the house. All part of the service.” And he rakes his gaze slowly, so slowly, up from Leonard's comfy driving shoes, over calves and knees, up his thighs. There’s a pause that seems to pull the whole universe in tight around them. Then his head lifts, and the look he turns on Leonard is virtually indecent. “So,” he purrs, “we got some time to kill here. I was thinking I might show you what else is… on the house.”

He’s mighty close now, so close his breath warms Leonard's cheek and the scents of sweaty, hard-working man and motor oil fill his nose, rekindling a dozen fantasies about aircraft mechanics, madcap inventors, and steam train engineers Leonard's enjoyed over the years.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

A hand cups his package through his jeans, bold as brass and hot despite the none-too-wintry day around them.

“I’m gonna suck your cock,” Kirk murmurs in his ear. “I don’t care whether you think of me or your old lady or the man in the fucking moon. I just wanna suck you ‘til you come down my throat. Does that work for you, Doc?”

It takes Leonard two tries to get the breath to answer him, and his voice is squeaky when he manages. “You’re damn right it does.”

The hand squeezes pleasantly. “And you’d tell me if there was anything I needed to know, right, Doc?”

That sort of question really should not be sexy. But delivered in that low, unabashed, throaty tone…

“Cross my heart.”

Kirk grins, runs a single hand down Leonard's chest, then drops gracefully to his knees. He slips the beer bottle from Leonard's hand, takes a sip, then sets it down out of the way.

Leonard unhooks his belt, slides the tongue free, watches Kirk watch intently as he pops open the snaps on his jeans one by one.

“Yeah,” Kirk says, moving in close so he can brush his stubbled cheek against Leonard's dick through the silk of his boxers. Then he’s yanking jeans and underwear down, and Leonard has to adjust his posture so he’s leaning more securely on the wall when Kirk takes hold of his cock and starts licking it like a popsicle.

Leonard can’t help slipping one hand into the kid’s hair, which feels surprisingly clean and soft and product-free. But he doesn’t push, doesn’t insist, doesn’t beg. Doesn’t keep from moaning when Kirk opens his mouth and takes Leonard's dick in deep, humming in satisfaction as he does.

The kid slurps like he means it, doesn’t seem to be one of those guys who’ll draw it out as long as possible; he takes him high and fast and doesn’t hesitate even a second until Leonard's crying out, knees locking, hips jerking helplessly forwards as he pulses into that wonderful wet mouth.

“Christ, kid,” he breathes, when the kid looks up at him with those blue, blue eyes, wiping a smudge of spilled semen from his chin with the back of his wrist.

The kid pops up quick as a jack-in-the-box. “Call me Jim,” he purrs. Then he pulls Leonard's pants back up, carefully tucks his rapidly deflating dick back into his boxers before fastening the jeans and patting Leonard on the shoulder. “That was fun.” He’s bouncing on his toes. “Five hundred should cover it, you cool with that?”

Leonard finds he doesn’t like the brisk return to business. But he isn’t going to complain, not after that orgasm. “Sure.”

“Paul’ll take your money. See you round. Might look you up sometime.”

“I’ll be in San Francisco.”

He winks. “So will I, sooner or later.”

He waves at Jim, at the definite bulge in what have to be painfully tight jeans by now. “But don’t you want—?”

Jim just grins, kisses him quick and dirty, and walks away, whistling.

***

“Actually,” says Paul, as he’s printing Leonard's receipt, “it's after five, he’s not the boss anymore. The owner’s back tomorrow, Jim was just filling in.”

“Huh,” Leonard says, and doesn’t quite know what to add.

“Yeah. Only guy I know who’s worked in like fifteen states.”

***

Leonard's just checking his mirrors, psyching himself up for another spell of driving through unfamiliar country when the passenger door opens and someone slides into the seat beside him.

“Hey, Doc,” Jim says. “You know, I’ve never been to San Francisco.” He shuts the door, reaches for the seatbelt, waggles his eyebrows.

Leonard gazes heavenwards. Really, he’s had a rather strange day. “Neither have I,” he replies, unable to contain his grin, and starts the engine.

***END*** 


End file.
